Monthly Archives: June 2012

Ian Beale must die!

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There’s a tramp heading back to Albert Square. Cat Slater is already back behind the bar of the Vic, Janine ‘Black Widow’ Butcher is about to claim another victim and Cindy Beale has assumed a new identity behind the bar of the Rovers in Weatherfield  so it’s none of those. So who can it be? That’s right, it’s none other than Walford’s least successful entrepreneur Ian Beale.

Over the years I’ve had a love/hate relationships with soaps, neither preferring one nor the other, dipping in and out occasionally, sometimes with months inbetween but never really feeling like I’ve missed much after a couple of episodes catching up. Dot is still alive, Carla on Corrie is still beautiful and Ian Beale is still, pathetic.

The offspring of dysfunctional Kathy and Pete Beale, Ian has roamed the streets of Walford from day one. Like a snivelling pinball he’s bounced from woman to woman, business to business and Mitchell to Mitchell never really achieving very much, and on the odd moment he has, it’s been quickly taken away from him, usually by a woman, leaving him crying and suicidal on Arthur’s bench. He loved that place you know.

Lets be honest, if most of us had had Ian’s run in life we’d have walked up to Phil Mitchell, called him ‘baldie’ and let nature take it’s course a long long time ago, yet the writers on Britain’s most depressing soap continue to give Ian life like a sad eyed puppy that you just can’t put down because it licks you as you take the cap off the needle.

I’m firmly of the belief that it’s time Ian Beale went out in blaze of glory, back from sleeping rough on the streets, I’d like to see Ian take his revenge, Kill Beale Tarantino style on all those who’ve wronged him over the years.

Beheading Cindy Beale in the Rovers, revealing in the Vic that Jane was actually a man, running Mandy through with one of her high heels in the Minute Mart and then a final showdown with Phil Mitchell in the arches where inevitably Ian snivels, whimpers, cries and is sent to the crusher in the boot of Phil’s old Jag.

So come on Eastenders team, it’s time to give the viewers what they want, one last hurrah for the snivelling entrepreneur.

Ian Beale must die.

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Footballers coming home

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What I know about football you could write on the back of a postage stamp, what I care, on the back of a five pence piece. To me, football has and always will be a girls game, played by overpaid prima donnas, more worried about breaking a nail and looking beautiful at the next nightclub than getting stuck in and giving it 110%

I suppose when you’re earning £100,000 a week, and let’s call that four times as much as one of your average ticket-buying fans earns in a year, it’s easy to lose sight of the goal.

This is why I’ve always been a rugby fan, those boys don’t get paid ludicrous sums of money to kick, well carry, a ball and they literally bleed for their country. They are hungry for success, they want it and they’ll mostly give it their all to get there.

You see Sunday wasn’t the only England international this weekend, 24 hours beforehand the England rugby team took on South Africa and held them to super-tight 14-14 draw in the dying minutes of the game, ok so they didn’t win but there was no way they were going to go home without a fight yet hardly anybody noticed, and that’s wrong.

Even as a staunch rugby fan I’ll admit I was on the edge of my seat during the England Italy penalty shootout. The delicious Cabernet Sauvignon may have had something to do with that, but I couldn’t help but feel as Ashleys Young and Cole hoofed their penalties back towards Blighty that they just didn’t care, to them it was just another Saturday kick-about before falling out of Mahiki with a teammate’s girlfriend.

You could never say that of a bloodied Owen Farrell as he hoofed his high-pressure penalty over the bar at Port Elizabeth on Saturday to pull a draw from the jaws of defeat in the 72nd minute.

When it comes to football we’re blinded as a nation, those boys can do no wrong and we’ll watch in our millions, beer and Vuvuzela in hand cheering on every backward pass of the ball and burying our heads in our hands every time they board an early flight home. It’s time we stopped, asked questions and stopped blowing smoke where the sun doesn’t shine.

They need their hunger back, and they’ll never get it if we as a nation force feed them before every tournament.

England expects: Yes, it does.

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The Self Preservation Society

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‘Hang on lads, I’ve got a great idea’ said Charlie Croker as years of planning teetered on the edge of a cliff at the end of my favorite film The Italian Job – the original, naturally.

Now I’m not one for all that psychic Horoscope Russell Grant Mystic Meg mumbo-jumbo, but every now and again it can be spookily accurate.

Take a look at mine from The Sunday Mirror this week:

‘A fresh idea helps you make good decisions …. won’t allow fear of failure to prevent you from taking a step forward or taking a risk’

Now most of you probably don’t know, or even care that AngryBritain does most of what it does for shits and giggles, very rarely are we paid for what we do. Now much like Charlie Croker I’ll be buggered if I’m going to see 4 years hard work go over the edge of cliff – so that’s gotta change. And to do that, I need you.

I need you to get involved in the site, use it and make it your own. We’ve given it a massive overhaul, built a forum for you and now I need you to start using it in anger. In addition to that the Beef page is a bit sparse, so I need to know who’s got your goat and why and the fresh idea is ….

…. that I am going to take the buggers on wielding my huge virtual penis via Twitter and Facebook to make them resolve your issues. They’re already scared of me, as an ex-member of Three UK’s Social Media team recently told me.

You could say I’m going after Watchdog, they’re too far behind, social media is where the world is now. Nobody likes being called ‘shit’ publicly, so let’s use that and our combined networks to get your issues resolved.

I’ve already spoken to someone and this project has potential for much bigger things if we get it right, and start getting results.

Now, let’s blow the bloody doors off eh? If Martin Lewis can pull his coach from the cliff edge, so can we.

 

 

 

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Homepride

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Millions of pounds, millions of people, and no doubt a knighthood for Barlow.

And back to work today.

If you took in the Jubilee festivities over the weekend you’re probably feeling a little bit fuzzy and warm inside, for some of you that’ll be the remainder of the booze, for the rest it’ll be a sense of pride and belonging.

It’s just a shame that by this time next week 99.9% of you will have forgotten all about it, moved on, and be swearing at your neighbours again over their cat peeing on your petunias.

When we come together as a nation like we did over the weekend it’s not difficult to see how we were once a Great Britain, one that is barely recognisable today as we sink even further into a financial and immoral mire. Indeed flying the Union Jack (and I’m not getting into that Jack v Flag argument again) from about 5pm today will instantly mark you out as a racist, vegetarian taunter or an Austin Powers fan. And that’s a shame.

We’ve become too sensitive to others, we fear offending the Guardian brigade, the muslims, the gays, the cops, the teachers, the nurses, the polar bears and so many others, yet over the last 4 days the world hasn’t ended over some bunting, has it?

Keep waving the Union Jack Britain, even if only in your heart.

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